For many years, when I checked my son's grades, it was as if those scores contained secrets about my parenting methods.

Missing one assignment means I should have been more attentive; doing poorly on a test means I need to step in. If he wants to wear jogging pants again, I will insist that he wear jeans, because for some reason, denim has always made me feel that's what truly represents raising a decent person.

I corrected his choice of words, was concerned about his manners, paid attention to every detail, and then tried to manage all of it.

At that time, I told myself that this was called participation. Looking back now, I was actually micromanaging my son, because I felt that his choices reflected what kind of mother I really was.

Later on, I finally couldn't bear the burden any longer and was utterly exhausted.

I became a mother at a very young age and always felt that I had to prove something.

I gave birth to my son at the age of 19. At that time, I was not married, and I had several piercings on my body. I also liked to wear patterned T-shirts and dark-colored clothes quite often. Before I really figured out who I was, it seemed like many people had already made judgments about what kind of mother I would become.

So I desperately wanted to prove them wrong. I wanted good grades, decent clothes, and polite responses. I wanted to be the kind of child that people would look at and say, "She really raises her child well."

I didn't realize that I had turned the role of my mother into a performance, one performed for an invisible audience.

I'm not just raising this child in front of me. I'm also considering how others in my imagination will view him, and by extension, how they will view me for raising him.

The problem is that it's my son who is bearing this kind of pressure.

I finally stop dwelling on every small matter anymore.

By the time he reached puberty, I no longer had the energy to keep a close eye on everything. So I stepped back a bit.

I no longer constantly check his grades, nor do I remind him about each assignment. I no longer care whether he wears jeans or sweatpants. As long as he has clothes to wear, that’s fine for us.

I've stopped correcting every small detail, and instead, I pay more attention to whether those truly important things even exist.

Is he kind? Can he take responsibility when he makes mistakes? Will he put in the effort when something is important to him? Does he know that he can come to me when things go wrong in his life?

Then something I didn't expect happened. He began to take the initiative to take responsibility. His grades improved, and he became more responsible for his schoolwork as well. Whenever he determined that something was important, he would work hard for it.

He is 15 years old now. In recent years, I've seen him become particularly capable whenever he makes up his mind to do something.

Obviously, he doesn't need me to control every detail of his life tightly in order to be responsible. What he needs is space to practice, space to breathe.

I wish I could have trusted him sooner.

When I stopped looking for the next thing that needed correction, our relationship also changed. The house became quieter. I started to listen more. He too had more space to explore on his own, without feeling that every mistake had to be immediately addressed.

Of course, I still have rules, and I will still say no. After all, I am raising a teenager, not running an unattended summer camp. But I no longer treat every decision as an opportunity to leave my mark. I really wish I had realized this earlier.

For many years, the evaluations imagined by others have influenced my parenting style. I was so focused on raising a child who would be recognized by others that at times I missed the person he was actually becoming.

My son should never merely be a proof of my success in overcoming the challenges of being a young mother. He is meant to be himself. And I don’t need to micromanage him to prove that I’m a good mother. What I need to do is to trust him enough and let him grow on his own.

Essays

Parenting